Ridley Pearson - Pied Piper

“Yo!” the man answered.

“Anderson’s caller-ID,” Boldt said.

“Right?”

“Anderson wasn’t a guy working out of the kindness of his heart. He worked for hire.”

“I’m with you.”

“I know Gaynes is checking his caller-ID list, John. That she intends to speak with each of them. But cross-checking those calls by address and comparing those addresses with the neighborhood that the Pied Piper may have had under surveillance-”

“Addresses?” LaMoia repeated softly, allowing a long silence as he attempted to follow Boldt’s train of thought. “Gimme a second here,” he vamped. “Oh shit!” LaMoia gasped. It had obviously connected for him the same way it had for Boldt. “Weinstein’s house is in that direction. Anderson wasn’t working for the Pied Piper, he was working for Weinstein!”

“Pleasant dreams,” Boldt said, disconnecting, knowing damn well that LaMoia wouldn’t sleep a wink.

Daphne selected the task force situation room for impact, its walls littered with photos both of the kidnapped children and of Anderson’s corpse, an arm dangling half in, half out, of the bathtub. Suspects responded to environment, and she intended to treat Weinstein as a suspect.

Kay Kalidja held the door for Flemming, not the other way around. They entered ceremonially, Flemming instinctively reaching for the chair at the head of the large oval table and then reconsidering. “Where do you want me?” he asked Daphne.

“Wherever you’re comfortable,” she replied. “The head is fine. I want the suspect here,” she pointed, “where he’s forced to look at the shots of Anderson.”

Kalidja shook hands with Daphne. “I wouldn’t want to get on your bad side.”

“No you wouldn’t,” Flemming contributed, letting Daphne know that he’d done his homework and knew about her. “‘Motivational Resources in the Criminally Disposed?’”

“I’m impressed,” Daphne said as Flemming came up with the title of one of her papers. She searched her memory and fired back, “‘Human Extortion-Negotiating to Freedom.’”

“Gold star.” Flemming faced Kalidja and demanded of her, “Background?”

“Father of victim number eleven: goes by Sidney. Graduated high school in Ohio. Antioch College. Earns sixty-eight thousand. Jewish. Wife is a gentile, Trish. Donations include Greenpeace and the Democratic National Party-small change-”

Flemming clucked his tongue at mention of Greenpeace.

Kalidja continued, “Has an eighty-thousand-dollar mortgage, twelve thousand left on his car loan. Credit cards pretty run up. No arrests. One moving violation, three years ago. Doesn’t telephone out of state very often; when he does it’s to a cousin and an aunt and uncle. Home phone number found on Anderson’s caller-ID list. Seven calls total. Three in the week prior to the accident.”

“Murder, don’t you mean?” Daphne inquired of Flemming.

“Accident,” Flemming insisted, leaning on the word. “You have two hundred and six hours of court time, Ms. Matthews-” she didn’t even know this number herself “-as an expert witness. I would doubt seriously that even once that testimony involved evidentiary assets of any kind. Your realm is speculation-”

“It’s science,” she countered, feeling her face burn.

“-into motive, environment, a suspect’s mental state. All helpful to the judicial process, but evidence is quite another matter. I have sixteen hundred hours in that same chair. At this point in time, Anderson was an accident. Something comes in to dispute this, we’ll review it. Circumstantial evidence is just that. It may work for Columbo but it doesn’t work in that chair. The Bureau doesn’t arrest suspects, we convict them. Therein lies the difference between me and Ms. Hill.”

She could feel resentment oozing from his every pore; he wanted control of the task force. He was a formidable presence. One didn’t miss Gary Flemming, didn’t pass him over with a casual glance. His black skin appeared iridescent in the room’s artificial light. His voice warmed her chest like a preacher’s.

Flemming held a degree in psychology from Georgetown, a master’s in criminology from USC. He had been a federal marshal with the INS border patrol before joining the Bureau. With each two-year transfer he had received promotion. He served on the Girl Scouts national board and did the speaker circuit during vacation to promote a minor best seller he’d penned about his celebrity kidnapping cases. Single, Daphne recalled. Never married. This struck her as hard to believe. As a woman, she found the self-confidence, the penetrating brown eyes incredibly attractive. Perhaps, she thought, women came to him too easily. Like LaMoia , she thought.

Flemming drank a Diet Coke from the can, his strong black hand gripping the soda. Kalidja drank a Starbucks coffee. The psychologist in Daphne was glad for these few minutes of evaluation-it was important to know one’s teammates. Flemming struck her as all business. His researcher, Kalidja, was all woman, sensual and fluid. She had expressive eyes and the lilting singsong voice of an islander. The ceramic beads ticked percussively behind her self-conscious toying with her hair. Daphne wondered if Flemming and Kalidja were more than colleagues.

Flemming’s toy was a stainless steel pen. He made notations in his leather Day Timer, unable to sit still. When he allowed his face to settle, it carried exhaustion, tension and impatience. He worked to keep those from showing. He checked his watch and grunted disapproval. His life ran according to those two hands.

LaMoia appeared, looking unusually tired. He was followed in lockstep by Sidney Weinstein and a gray suit named Caldwell.

LaMoia made a half-baked gesture of greeting to Flemming, offered Kalidja an annoyingly fawning smile and acquiesced to Daphne’s placement of the participants. Weinstein and his representative, Caldwell, sat across from the crime scene photos. Daphne focused on Weinstein, alert for changes in body language and expression.

Following introductions Caldwell spoke first, expounding his legal rhetoric. LaMoia reminded everyone that the interview was nothing more than an informal inquiry, a fact-finding mission. He said, “Mr. Weinstein, are you familiar with caller-ID, an electronic device that allows-”

“I know about it.”

“Over a two-week period, you or your wife made four calls to one Bernard Chalmers Anderson, known locally as Ricky Anderson, Richey Anderson and most recently, Andy Anderson.” Daphne logged the man’s pained expression. Weinstein was no innocent.

Caldwell, the man’s attorney, said, “Mr. Anderson was a private detective. As such-”

“Correction,” LaMoia said, interrupting. “Anderson installed home security devices. He also provided everything from Polaroids of the wife caught doing the dirty to a dislocated limb or two when the situation called for it.”

“Now wait just a minute!” the attorney protested.

“Easy,” Flemming said in his low, resonant voice, the sound of which melted Daphne. “The sergeant just told you: There are no charges stemming from this. Settle down, Caldwell.” The lawyer now focused on the SAC, knowing he was the one to watch.

LaMoia asked, “When did you last speak with Anderson, Mr. Weinstein?”

“Monday or Tuesday of this week,” came the nervous answer.

“And have you tried since?” He advised, “Think carefully.”

“Tuesday night.”

LaMoia nodded. “At 9:52, to be precise. Lucky for you, that was two hours after Mr. Anderson’s windpipe had been slightly rearranged, leaving him a little blue in the face, I’m afraid.” Looking right at Weinstein he said, “Tongue as black as tire rubber and about the size of a rat. Dead. A nasty fall in the tub. Serves as a keen reminder of the importance of those rubber mats with the suction cups. Know the ones I mean?”